No More Kids, Thanks

My (ex) babysitter is adopting a child from South Korea.  Her and her husband are nearly unable to get pregnant.  They have one son that they had naturally, but it has been a no-go since then.  She is adament about people having more children if they are able, but does this almost to a fault.  In a recent post on her Facebook page (yes, I stalked my ex-babysitter.  Why shouldn't I? I liked to read her posts while she should have been watching my kids.  Bitch.) she told one of her friends that she 'thought this crazy lady probably had a litter of children, while all of the nice people in the world couldn't have any'.  Um, seriously? 

I am a fertile piece of baby-making soil.  My husband looks at my uterus and I'm pregnant.  But I don't want any more kids.  None.  Sure, I think about it, but come on!  Eventually, I want to send my kids off to college and go to Ireland or Italy or do some type of exercise program that does not involve them in any way, shape, or form.  Independence is something that I crave! 

This is the point where I tell you that I love my kids and wouldn't change anything about them being in the world.  True.  I wasn't necessarily trying to have my oldest when we brought him into this world (obviously we were having sex and I was taking my birth control pill religiously, but God wanted to punish bless me with him), so it was unexpected and life-altering and felt like I had no choice.  But I wouldn't take it back!  I couldn't!  Reading to that little boy every night and feeling him wrap his skinny little arms around my neck in 'a BIG hug' is the cherry on top of my life ice cream. 

It's just that....sometimes....that ice cream is crap with poop chips.  And vomit whipped cream. 

I understand that I don't feel the pain of not being able to have children.  If I was without that ability, I doubt I would be that heartbroken because of my personality.  I prefer to stay at work late (I don't because I am willingly obligated to my family).  Kids are messy and disorganized; I am not.  I'm more emotional  and pissy than my two-year old.  That in itself should be enough.

However, having the ability to produce children, but not wanting to does not make me the opposite of all the 'nice people' in the world.  Fuck you, bitchy babysitter that wants my ten-month old to 'entertain herself' while you update your stupid Facebook status.  You're not the nicest person in the world, either.

Breastfeeding Kinda Sucks (this time, anyway)

My daughter refuses to nurse.  Except at night (like 3 a.m.) when she has no choice.  On the weekends, she will bite my nipple and continuing biting while she pulls her mouth off.  She is evil. 

Breastfeeding is evil.

So, why not just quit?  Because I was raised not to.  The entire eight years that I was in swimming, I threatened to quit every single year.  Marching band?  Softball?  Yeah, that's right.  I wanted to quit.  I wanted to quit college, too, when I found out I was pregnant.  Thank God that didn't happen or we'd be sitting out on our asses begging for food.  You're not supposed to quit when your situation gets hard, because in the end (unless you're being abused, then get out now and go see Aunt Becky) it will be worth it.  I breastfed my son for the entire first year.  I had a great pump (thank you, Medela!) and a strong will. 

It seems that my daughter has an even stronger will than I.

What is it about the breast that she hates?  Probably because it's too hard to get the milk out.  Well, honey, let me tell ya, I didn't quit and neither are you.  So, take that, little stinker.

Oh, Monday. I hate you.

The weekend was not a horrible one in the least.  I got a lot of Christmas shopping done and the kids and I had a great time.  We celebrated Thanksgiving with my mother and father-in-law since they will be gone for the holiday.  Unfortunately, Monday came around and brought me not to the realization that it was the start of the work week, but that it was the start of the flippin' holidays. 

I am cooking the turkey for my side of the family this year and it is my first time.  A turkey-cooking virgin, am I.  Looking forward to it, but also hoping that I don't kill anyone.  My house doesn't have to be clean, since I am not hosting.  How awesome!  Chances are, my sister will call me Wednesday night after the kiddos are in bed and ask for help cleaning the house since Mom will be a lump and of no use (because of knee surgery! Bah!)

Weird thing happened last week.  I had a dream about fixing one of the machines at work, the GC.  I have to rewrite all of the methods because my stupid analytical manager pulled a piece of equipment off of the GC, but forgot to update the  machine so that it would reflect that change.  Yeah, so after six months of being at work and having absolutely no prior knowledge on how to create a method, I fixed the damn thing.  Because I had a dream.  Imagine that. 

My son is getting a Dodge Charger police car for Christmas.  My daughter is getting a regifted blow up dog tent because she isn't even one and she will never know.  We won't videotape the part when we give it to her.  No evidence of our cheapness.

Ech. Christmas.

Since, I'm pretty much the best wife my husband could ask for, I have gotten him awesome Christmas presents.  As an example, last year, I bought him a 50" plasma HDTV (yes, 1080p, duh) and a huge ass toolbox.  Granted, the deal on the huge ass toolbox was a steal and I probably could have gotten him something else, but I was pregnant and worn out.  And Xander wanted me to have the cutest little shoes.  Fine, he didn't.  Shut up.

This year, my big plan was to get him a motorcycle.  He sold his first one when we found out we were pregnant and would the money for, well, anything.  We needed the money. 

Then, he bought himself one over the summer.

Bastard. 

Fine, he's not a bastard, but now, what the hell am I supposed to buy him?  He's got his man cave, he's got the cool new tools.  I could buy him one of the Dremel things, but he has expressed no interest in them.

I'm getting a sewing table.  Whoo hoo.  I would ask for a new pump, because my bag is getting torn up and it looks like I'm now the hobo carrying the hobo pump bag.  However, Lilly will be done nursing at the end of this year and Christmas is at the end of this year...looks like I'm not getting a new pump.  Dammit.  No, I will not have any more babies to justify needing one.  Now that you mention it, though...

NO!

So, what do I get my husband?  The infernal man has everything. 

Maybe I'll get naked and wrap myself in a bow and blow his mind.  I bet he would like that!

Random Tuesday Thoughts (RTT)

Today is most certainly a random day and thus, a good day to voice whatever the hell is rampaging in my noggin. 

I recently read an article posted by Beta Dad who posted on Daddy Dialectic about parenting.  In particular, about why parents hate parenting, although Beta Dad proposed a new title as Why Working Parents Hate Life.  I am most certainly sure that I do not hate life, but I can pretty much type anything I want about my life and you pretty much have to believe it, pretty much.  'Cause you don't know me, fool! 

What I do hate is coming home from working nine hours a day, fixing dinner, unloading the dishwasher, laundry, playing with the kids, bedtime snacks, bath and then waking up three to four times a night and going back to work at 6:30 the next morning.  So, the perpetual exhaustion might be a key factor in this 'hating of my life'.  It's not the kids.  They aren't a burden to me.  My life before children was boring and unstructured. 

I love having them to myself on the weekends, but I love it even more if I don't do housework.  That seems to be the kicker.  On top of having to take care of my extremely energetic children, I also have the burden of dishes, the stupid floor that constantly needs to be swept and wet swiffered, the whole flippin' house to clean, the ginormous pile of clothes that need to be put on hangers and in drawers, etc etc etc.  I am wondering if it will be possible for me to somehow decorate my house, but no one is coming in it anyway because of embarrassment.  But, hey!  If no one is coming over, then fuck housework!  Ha! Problem solved.

I would like to write a note to my congressman and to the dead Ben Franklin about daylight savings time.  It is quite obvious that Mr. Franklin did not play a fatherly role in any of the 50 or so illegitimate children that he sprung from his loins or he wouldn't have come up with daylight savings time.  My kids get up at the same time that I do when I'm getting ready for work.  At 5:45 a.m.  And they go to bed earlier, so we have to leave early from whereever we are so that they don't undergo a complete meltdown.  Well, Xander at least.  He is just ridiculous if he isn't kept on a strict schedule. Lilly is like, whatevz.

Snickers.  Reese's.  Alex bought Halloween candy on his day off.  Crap, now I have to eat it all.  Oh, man.  So sad!

I'm making the turkey for Thanksgiving this year!  Mom is having surgery and my aunt is depressed, so it falls on the oldest granddaughter that can actually cook.  All of the other granddaughters are either in the Army or not willing to take any responsibility that may come their way.  I know that it will fall on me when Mom dies to keep the family together.  Or I just won't and then it'll make my life easier.  Whoo!  Come on, you know I won't be able to do that.  I have oldest child syndrome and therefore too much guilt to consider following through with anything mildly heinous. 

Guilt.  Yuck.